


The Things He Learns

by musical_emjay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musical_emjay/pseuds/musical_emjay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they were younger, they used to run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things He Learns

When they were younger, they used to run. Dean would lead; long, steady strides eating up the cracked asphalt and Sam at his side and just a little behind. Even though his legs were longer, Sam always liked to hang back, watch the pump of Dean's bare arms and let his brother have this little thing, let him set the pace even if Sam could just as easily have stormed ahead.

Every now and again Dean would glance over his shoulder and smirk, ramp up the speed or abruptly slow down, to test your reflexes he liked to say. Sam fell for the trick only once and ended up a sprawl of gangly limbs and scraped knees, face red with embarrassment after he ran full tilt into his brother, clipping his shoulder and tripping over his own feet. After that, he learned to watch for the clench of Dean's muscles, would merely smirk back, adjusting his own speed with ease.

Sometimes John would come with them, if he was up, and the three of them would jog briskly down the shoulder of whatever highway had brought them there, the early morning mist swirling around their ankles.

It didn't happen a lot.

***

There were other times, training in the forest if they were near one, sprints through the underbrush with long knives or guns in hand. John would pit them against each other, start them at different points and let them go. Sam learned to hear for the crunch of Dean's heavy steps, even when he was trying to be quiet, the creak of his leather jacket, the short huffs of expelled air as he ran. Sam imagined he wasn't any better; it was hard to move softly when he could barely shift his stance without brushing up against some twig or getting leaves caught in his hair. He took up too much space, hadn't quite learned yet how to draw himself inwards, make himself less.

He only caught Dean first a handful of times, after all. It was usually the butt of Dean's gun he felt nudge up against the dip of his spine, the heavy weight of Dean's arm jerked snug up against his chest and hard steel glinting at his throat. Dean would exhale, warm breath blasting across his nape, and then move backwards, giving Sam his space again, waiting until Sam had calmed his nerves before retracing their steps back to where John stood waiting.

Sam's getting better. Almost got the slip on me, Dean would say, and Sam always hated the fact that his brother felt the need to make excuses for him, placate their father, blow up his accomplishments so they could avoid another shouting match in the car.

But John would just nod, and then set them to sparring, and there was nothing Sam could say.

***

In the evenings it was pushups, in whatever space they could find, both of them in loose cotton shorts and Dean bare-chested, because he always liked to show off. Sam kept his shirt on, hideously self-conscious at the skinny chest he was trying so hard to define, and glared as Dean moved up and down like well-oiled machinery, thick ropes of muscles bunching and relaxing. The dim light of the room made the sweat along his shoulders gleam, and what Sam hated even more was how the sight of that made his mouth dry.

John tended to watch them out of the corner of his eye as he searched through the papers, counting off, and Sam's biggest fear was that John might see the tremble in his arms, the way his mouth fell open over the graceful dip of Dean's spine, the broad fan of his shoulders.

After a while, he began to claim the narrow space between the beds, even though it was almost too small to accommodate him, so he could stare at the carpet and forget for a while that he suddenly had a reason to be afraid of his father.

It didn't help that Dean was always the one to claim first shower. Sam would find himself panting with exertion on the floor, arms draped over his bent knees, unable to help watching over the bed at the shift of Dean's ass beneath the clinging cotton shorts as he disappeared into the bathroom. The next fifteen minutes were always the worst, feeling his own sweat dry, blood singing beneath tacky skin and pooling heavy between his legs.

It was during that time that Sam hated himself the most, but he knew how to keep his secrets. He knew the fastest way to get himself off afterwards, long, hard strokes that left him slack mouthed and shaking, his brother's name lodged firmly in his throat. He knew the fastest way to calm the pound of his heart when Dean came upon him in the woods, focusing on the bob of his Adam's apple against the knife at his throat rather than Dean's mouth behind his ear. He knew how to run with his eyes firmly fixed on the horizon.

The one thing he never learned, though, was how to make his secrets go away.


End file.
